


Assorted Cheese from Beleth

by Jakowic



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23654740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: Geralt finds him here: in the pig sty at a farm in Mortensen, past the mountains of Aedirn, and isn’t it just like Jaskier to make things more difficult for Geralt than they need to be?Geralt finds him here, too: in the basin of the Nazir River, where the land splits the water like an arrowhead. Geralt can’t help it: he bares his teeth at the sight, at its wild beauty, at the freedom he can see.And at last, again, in the night, Geralt finds him here: looking at the moon, strumming a little tune, and whistling a song. Their song.-In which Geralt loses Jaskier, and can’t stop himself from looking.(A sort of AU regarding reincarnation, immortality and the little things)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Assorted Cheese from Beleth

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to thank my very lovely betas, my friend noah, [beans4972](https://beans4972.tumblr.com/), and [ghoulluck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulluck/pseuds/ghoulluck) for helping me finish this story and catching all my mistakes <3
> 
> i found it funny that the show forgot to age Jas but i kept thinking.... like.... Geralt could potentially live DECADES more than Jas and i was like........ magic is real in this stupid show i’m gonna do what i want. reincarnation AU (?) where Geralt purposefully seeks out Jas again and again, hoping he’ll do better than he did last time.

Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier since he left Geralt standing on that mountain. It would be concerning if Geralt had ever returned to Cintra, where Jaskier seldom left. Unless he was following Geralt out on an adventure. (And here Geralt is now: on an adventure. Jaskier’s absence is noted.)

It’s Yennefer that delivers the news.

He’s just on the outskirts of a town, looking through the underbrush for places to set rabbit traps, leading Roach behind him, when he smells her. He doesn’t react, just stands up straight, and strokes Roach’s nose. 

“It’s been awhile,” she offers.

”Hm,” Geralt returns, because a statement of fact isn’t a conversation starter.

She shifts through the plants, skirts rustling the ferns. “I have news.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, not much interested. Then he scowls. “If it’s from Cintra, you can tell Calanthe that I am very—“

”No,” Yennefer says. 

They both stop. The Child Surprise hangs between them, her own selfishness a gape in the tentative bridge Geralt has been trying to build. Geralt doesn’t want to look at her, but he knows he’ll hate it more if he doesn’t. 

She looks nice, he decides. Her eyes are bright, and her mouth is quirked down, like this isn’t how she wanted it to go. Her dress is deep emerald, and layered so it must be warm. She has a cloak on as well, a purple so deep it’s almost black, Geralt thinks she’s come from the mountains. She had to have.

”News from Malleore,” Yennefer says at last.

Malleore is one of the towns near the Dragon Mountains, the last few of all the people on the continent that believe. Geralt has been there once, just passing through, and it’s alright. All the buildings are low to the ground, the roofs disguised with greenery. There are little livestock there, and the people are all nice, if suspicious and defensive, assuming travelers come for Dragon's gold. 

”I have nothing to do with Malleore.” He turns back to Roach, intending to be the first to leave the conversation, wanting this to sting her. He wants this small victory for himself, as uselessly petty as it is.

”Jaskier,” Yennefer says, and the world briefly stops. He turns back to her, and he knows she isn’t lying.

“No,” Geralt says, because _no_. No matter how hard Geralt tried he never once shook Jaskier. All the danger, pain, and all the monsters, and Jaskier was always right behind him with his stupid lute. There was no getting rid of Jaskier as far as Geralt understood, like there’s no life for a Witcher without pain, like water brings fish, like soil breeds plants.

”There was a rockslide, it destabilized paths on the mountains. The ground fell out from beneath him, and he was crushed.”

Geralt’s world rearranges itself. “How long ago?”

”A week, about, now. I was trying to track you.”

These are the facts of the world: 1) Yennefer of Vengerberg is his, just like he is hers, 2) there is a Child Surprise for him in Cintra, 3) waves rise and fall with the moon, and 4) Jaskier was only human - from beginning to end, from dawn until twilight. And Geralt let him leave. 

He will never get to correct that. Something in him howls.

Geralt nods. “I know you didn’t like him. I appreciate the effort.”

Yennefer tilts her head, and then she lifts a hand, conjures a portal to a place Geralt cannot see, and walks away from him.

* * *

* * *

He’s somewhere east of the Veldageso, stomping through a chickenshit little village, leading his eleventh steed, also called Roach, through the fucked up cobblestone because of fucking course it’s not safe enough to ride on, when he sees the silhouette of a man in a doorframe. It’s familiar, the cant of the hips, the angle of the lean. Geralt stops, and Roach pulls up short, bumping against Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt is looking, and past the man he can hear the chatter of bar patrons. The man is facing the inside, and as Geralt watches, he throws his head back to laugh at something inside. Geralt moves toward him unconsciously, and then with purpose. He ties Roach to a post and approaches the bar.

He’s done this before, after all, who hasn’t been attracted to a man. But there’s something else, the niggling familiarity that’s making him impulsive. He stands behind the man, and he turns and greets Geralt with a jaunty “Hello there!” and Geralt’s mouth dries. Standing in front of him is Jaskier - younger, with darker skin, sandier hair, but Geralt knows the shape of that face, the color of those eyes, the crookedness of his mouth, that smile.

He’s saying something, talking: “You’re new here. Passing through, I presume? You’ve got a bit of blood-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier laughs. “No, no. It’s Evak. You’re thinking of someone else.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier's face, as different as it is, makes something pang in the deep recess of Geralt's chest. Something like nostalgia lodges in his throat, a vice trapping his lungs and... hurt. He's hurt, looking at Jaskier, because he's the one that killed Jaskier, and Geralt's spent twenty-two years of sleepless nights wishing he'd done something differently.

“You know any Oracles around here?”

Jaskier, who’s dressed in farmer’s clothes, and isn’t carrying a lute, but is Jaskier, tells Geralt he’s looking for Delphine Fointes. She's the reason he's in the Veldageso at all. She's assisted him before as tome of knowledge on monsters so ancient, the Witcher keep never would've dreamed of teaching about them. She’s been around here forever, just past the edge of town, a few miles up an impasse in a weird little hut thing. Geralt knows, he's been here before - in the before. Wherever trouble is, Delphine is. He’s missed her.

“Mind if I tag along?” He asks, hopeful. “You’re Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. I’ve always wanted to see you fight.”

Geralt looks at him. “I’ll be back, Jaskier.”

“It’s Evak,” Jaskier calls after him, and Geralt doesn’t answer. 

It’s near dusk when he ducks into Delphine’s hut, Roach sticks her head in the doorway after him. The hut smells like incense and herbs, like always, and there are animal bones hanging from strings attached to the roof, glasses filled with potions line shelves on every wall, and bunches of herbs rest beside them. She’s got two books open near her, and bird’s feathers scattered around the hearth. She’s sitting cross-legged in behind the smoking remains of a fire, eyes closed, chanting under her breath. Geralt hears the Elder in her voice, the magic on her breath.

“How is he here?” Geralt asks.

She opens her eyes. She’s changed, older by a decade, hair twisted with grey and teeth gone slightly crookeder. She’s wearing a strange brown robe, cut uneven at her knees, loose fabric bunched up over her right shoulder and her left one out bare. She has more tattoos, and more bits of silver burned into the scars on her body.

“Hello to you, too,” she says.

“Jaskier, he’s here. He died, twenty-two years ago,” Geralt’s a little breathless, but his voice comes out steady. “My fault,” he adds.

“And you want to know how,” Delphine says. There’s a teapot resting by her leg, hidden out of Geralt’s view until she picks it up. She tips liquid over the burning hot coals of the fire, and steam shoots up, obscuring her from Geralt’s sight. She pours more. “There are only two reasons for a spirit to return to this plane-”

Geralt gets irritated. “I know, Delphine. I want to know why he isn’t a monster or a-”

“You will do well not to interrupt me, Witcher,” Delphine says. Geralt huffs but falls silent. “Now,” she says, satisfied, “there are only two reasons for a spirit to return to this place. Revenge.”

The steam sparks red, bright and painful, and a shadow of Geralt battling a Striga appears. Geralt knows this one intimately: Botchlings, and Strigas, and werewolves. He knows. 

“Or, something left unfinished.”

Geralt doesn’t know this one at all.

The walk back to the town, he contemplates what Delphine said: unfinished. What on earth would Jaskier have left unfinished? His career, most likely. Maybe one of the women he left behind was of much greater importance to him than Geralt realized. He makes his way down the narrow dirt path, Roach following closely behind, nudging his shoulder with her nose. The countryside out here is green and brown, and in the fading light the grasses look blue, and the trees look black. The wind is dead, the air still -- the smell of oncoming rain sharp in Geralt’s heightened senses. 

He reaches the bottom of the summit, and the edge of the town. Geralt doesn’t find him at the bar like he was expecting.

“Oh, you mean Evak?” one of the patrons leans over to where Geralt and the barkeep are talking. Geralt glares at him, and the man blinks, remorseless. “He sings, sometimes. He went back to his da’s farm. You’ll find him there.”

So Geralt goes, and finds him there. He’s in the barn, running his fingers through the wool of a sheep, singing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier jumps. 

“Holy shit,” he says. “You have very quiet feet for a big man. I didn’t know you’d come up here.”

Geralt doesn’t know why he’s here. He has no plan. Jaskier looks at Geralt, a smile playing on his face, just like Geralt remembers.

“You gonna ask me to run away with you?” He’s joking.

“Yes,” Geralt says, surprising himself. “Come with me in the morning. You can see the world. You can sing for everyone.”

The smile starts to fade from Jaskier’s face. “How do you know I sing?”

“You were singing to the sheep,” Geralt says. “And I know you.”

Jaskier laughs in his face. “We’ve just met. But yes, I will go with you. If that’s not a testament to my own piss-poor self-preservation skills I don’t know what is. I’m going to run away with the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“I’m no butcher,” Geralt says.

* * *

* * *

“A selkiemore,” Jaskier is saying to the patrons, regaling them with tales of monsters Geralt’s slain. He’s drinking silently beside them when he catches it: a swish of a cloak at the back of the tavern, the hood up to keep the face of the patron hidden.

 _Yennefer_ , Geralt thinks, giddy and sour with it at the same time. He stands up abruptly, neither Jaskier or the patrons paying him any mind, too caught up in the story.

“Tell us, Evak!” one of them says in an excited whisper. “Tell us how he lived!”

Geralt makes his way to where she’s sitting, alone, in the corner. He takes the seat across from her and prepares.

It's Delphine. Geralt adjusts, the nerves flying from his body. She smiles at him. Geralt scowls.

“It wasn’t me you were expecting,” she says.

“No, but I should know better than to expect. I have too many mysterious women around me to suspect with any accuracy.”

She laughs. “She is coming, though. I just thought I’d come give you a warning.” She looks over to where Jaskier and his fans are. “How long have you been traveling with him?”

Geralt doesn’t understand time. She should know better than to ask him that sort of question. 

“It’s not going to end well,” she gives him a sad smile. “But you know that already.” 

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

The contract Geralt took up is this: a Golem, loosed by a dead mage, killing as it pleases. 

Jaskier insists on following him into the forest. On this, Jaskier is different than he used to be. He insists on carrying a sword now, has insisted on Geralt teaching him how to use it, and sings only sometimes, in-between moments. They leave at dawn into the forest, Jaskier leading Roach as they go toward where the villagers said it was last spotted.

A golem won’t stray far from where their mage died, and the mage had lived in a house near the edge of town. Golems are made to serve, animated rocks, twigs or mud - whatever material is on hand - and are rarely prone to murder. 

They don’t hear it until it’s smashing its huge fist down on the path in front of Geralt. It’s made out of rock, and Geralt curses. He moves back, drawing his sword from his back. He uncorks the bottle that holds his veratrum potion and downs it and feels his muscles tighten. 

“Stay behind me,” Geralt calls, as the Golem swings a giant fist toward him. 

It hits him in the side, and sends him flying a few feet into the trees along the path. He gets up in time to see the Golem raise his arms above his head, and howl. Geralt stands, and runs toward the monster, twisting his sword so it catches the Golem in its hip. The sound of it grates, steel on stone, but the outer layer of rocks crumbles away as Geralt yanks his sword back, revealing the twig skeleton underneath.

The Golem brings his fists down and Geralt barely gets out of the way.

“Be careful!” Jaskier yells. _Helpful_.

“It’s got a weak skeleton!” Geralt yells back. “I can cast igni and kill it, but the stone is in the way!”

Geralt twirls his sword, moving closer to the Golem as it tries to hit him again. Geralt meets its wrist with his blade, making the creature howl. Geralt hears the footsteps behind him, the quietness of the boots, and Geralt wants to yell at him to get back. The stone and steel screech against each other as the Golem rips his wrist away, snarling. 

Jaskier strikes it in the chest while its open, arms spread, and Geralt sees it happening like this: a hummingbird flaps its wings once, and Jaskier’s sword is moving against the crumbling rocks on the Golem’s chest. The hummingbird beats its wings once, twice, three times and Jaskier pulls his sword back, the twig skeleton uncovered. The hummingbird beats its wings again, and the Golem’s fist smashes into Jaskier’s head, neck, shoulder. The hummingbird’s body is crushed in the beak of a hawk.

“No!” Geralt howls, casting the fire spell at the twigs of the Golem’s chest, not bothering to check if it ignites, the scream of the creature enough. He falls to his knees at Jaskier’s side.

He’s bleeding from his mouth, and the side of his head is matted and too bloody to see if his head is cracked open. His neck is bent at a weird angle, the blood dribbling down his ear, his neck, onto his shirt. Jaskier’s eyes are cloudy, but still moving.

“No,” he says again. “No, no no no no no no no,” he keeps saying, low and desperate, just to make it extra clear. “I just got you back.”

Jaskier tries to look at him. “Ge-” he exhales, like it's difficult. “I’ll see you, again.”

So, this is it: the magpie caws far above, there are dragons in the mountains, and Geralt is supposed to watch Jaskier die.

Geralt covers his body with his own cloak, and carries Jaskier’s body back in his arms, Roach following behind them at a wandering pace, stopping to nibble the grass. Geralt collects his coin, and buries Jaskier outside the town, under a Larch tree.

* * *

* * *

Yennefer finds him in Metinna, in a town along the Jealousy, sitting in the bar of an inn.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks her shadow. 

She slides a hand along the cut of his shoulders, massages the dip. 

“I think I can be persuaded to forgive,” she says.

He takes her to his bed, lays her down against the sheets. It feels good to undress her, to kiss her naked chest, to hear her breath catch in her throat. She smells good, she always does. He eats her out, fucks his tongue into the tight heat of her pussy. 

She bucks against him, moaning, fingers tangled in the sheets. 

_For the night,_ he thinks, even though he also thinks, _stay_.

When he wakes up, she’s gone. Again. Gooseberries and lilac left in her wake.

* * *

* * *

He finally finds Jaskier in Lyria. He’s called Avrin this time, and has long black hair, braided against his back. He’s twenty when Geralt finds him, so twenty years since Jaskier’s Evak died, then. He’s a bard now, like when the first time Geralt met him, and he thinks Geralt is trying to coax him into bed. Geralt found him on purpose this time, because he missed Jaskier, and it's his job: witchers deliver souls. Most of the monsters that find their paths crossing Geralt's are trapped in an inescapable hell, one that breeds violent instinct and a unique level of anguish. One way or another, through killing, or a spell, or a sealed tomb, Geralt undos their curses and delivers them. Finding out what, exactly, will deliver Jaskier’s soul is another matter entirely.

“You’re awful interested in a mere bard for a witcher,” Jaskier leans close to Geralt’s face, grin on his face. Geralt cuts his eyes to the side, looking at Jaskier.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jaskier.”

“My name’s Avrin,” he says lightly as he slides onto the chair beside Geralt. “Do I remind you of someone?”

Geralt exhales, amused. Jaskier reminds him of a thousand things: blood, warm water, citrus, golden sun shining over the mountain pass, mud, the smell of a fire, damp grass.

“Have you ever been to Metinna?” Jaskier asks conversationally. His hair is distracting, it sways every time he moves his head, like a snake, like it has a mind of its own. It smells nice, too, and to Geralt’s sharp eyes it looks soft.

“Yes,” Geralt answers drolly. 

Jaskier has never, ever wanted his hair long before. He valued his appearance, constantly remarked that Geralt’s hair looked unkempt and wild. It looks good on this Jaskier: complements his sharp nose and his jaw, frames his eyes.

Lyria suits Jaskier, too, in a way. Nothing grotesque about its history, no tumultuous tales: quiet prosperity, and music, and good people. Lyria isn’t a monster magnet in any way at all, and Geralt came here on a rumor, a bard: a little lark.

“Do you want to see my room here?” Jaskier’s looking at his nails, faux-nonchalant.

It’s not casual, or smooth, it's delivered inexpertly, like this is the first time Jaskier has thought to try this sort of thing, like he’s out of his depth, and affection strikes Geralt below the ribs in a tender place. He takes in this Jaskier’s face: his soft eyebrows, the beauty marks, his small ears. 

“Jas-” he starts, in a soft tone, a tone Jaskier seems to recognize.

“Oh,” he stands up, the spike of body heat only detectable to Geralt.“I’m sorry, I misread your… uh. Anyways, I’ll leave you to it-” Geralt grabs his arm as he passes on his way, unwilling to let Jaskier slip away so soon.

“Please,” Geralt says in what he hopes isn’t a desperate tone, “stay. I can show you Metinna, if you’d like. There’s a town along the Jealousy that I enjoy.”

There’s a pause, his muscles shifting under Geralt’s hands, like there’s something there left to swallow between them: pride, maybe, or the freshness of Geralt’s hands on Jaskier. Geralt forgets that Jaskier doesn’t know him anymore.

“We can go to Metinna,” Jaskier says finally. “And then to Spalla. There’s a bardic convention, I don’t know other bards well yet.”

Geralt takes him to Metinna, and then to Spalla, and then to Kagen. Jaskier dies in Mayena.

So Geralt goes looking again.

* * *

* * *

Geralt finds him here: in the pig sty at a farm in Mortensen, past the mountains of Aedirn, and isn’t it just like Jaskier to make things more difficult for Geralt than they need to be? It took two decades and a half to find him, and he’s hiding far away. Mortensen is near the unexplored lands, the fae lands, over dangerous mountain passes in a place Geralt never goes.

He’s feeding the pigs corn, cooing at them gently, and Geralt pauses on the other side of the fence with Roach, watching him tend the pigs like they’re precious animals. Geralt slides off Roach, and Jaskier looks up at him, half-smile on his face, delight in the corners of his mouth. Geralt’s breath catches when he sees Jaskier’s eyes: that’s how Geralt keeps finding him. No matter his skin, or his hair, or his clothes, Jaskier always has those eyes. 

He’s stubborn, this Jaskier, like all the Jaskiers before, and he follows Geralt on his father’s stallion after Geralt refuses to take him, thinking that this once he can prevent Jaskier’s death, or delay it, or hide from the inevitable. 

_Stupid_ , Geralt thinks much much later, both of them being chased by a group of thugs. An arrow lands on the dirt path in front of Geralt and he steers Roach out of the way. _Stupid_ , he thinks when they come up against the wall of a cliff. It’s so hilariously cliché, isn’t it, that this is how the men in ancient times hunted the goliath beasts that ruled the world, that there are thousands of ballads and stories of heroes being backed against a wall.

They advance, arrows brandished like porcupine spines. Geralt turns Roach and draws his sword.

"We don't want trouble, Witcher," one of the men speaks up. He's got a mustache and yellow, crooked teeth. "We just want all your silver."

The five men cackle meanly, and Roach shuffles, impatient. 

"I take three, you take two," Geralt says in a low tone to Jaskier. He grins, draws his own sword.

"Whoever gets through faster wins."

It's not very hard, the men are untrained mercenaries. Geralt casts aard at two of the men with arrows, knocking them off their horses as he swipes cleanly through a third man's neck. Jaskier is up against the men who spoke earlier and one wearing a stupid helmet, and he seems fine. Geralt kills one of the men on the ground, sword through heart, when he's yanked off Roach by a considerable force. He hits the ground with an _ouf_ and is kicked in the gut for his trouble.

"Motherfucker," Geralt says, climbing to his feet. He bares his teeth at the man, who makes a rude gesture. Geralt cuts off his hand. The man screams, and a couple of feet away, a body falls off their horse. It's the one in the stupid helmet, and Geralt smiles. 

There's a pained sound, then, and Geralt furrows his brow. He turns to find Jaskier, reassure himself that he's killed the mustached man. In the one moment of distraction, the one moment where Geralt thinks _Jaskier_ and nothing else, the handless man tackles Geralt. They go down, and it takes no effort for Geralt to pin the man with his bodyweight and snap his neck.

He sits back, breathing hard.

"Looks like I win," Jaskier says, his grey stallion nuzzling Geralt's neck.

They're halfway back to Mortensen, a letter delivered a fortnight ago asking Jaskier to come to meet his nephew, when Geralt catches him in the bath. There's a wound on Jaskier's side, open and black and oozing. Geralt's head goes woozy and faint, and he thinks, _infection_.

"Jaskier," he says, mouth dry. 

Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes, then they harden with resolve. "It's magicked, Geralt. No time for me left but to go home and say one last goodbye."

So they go back to Mortensen, and it takes four days for Jaskier to succumb to the symptoms. He lies in bed for a week, feverish and pale, asking for water, for his father, for Geralt and nothing else. Geralt doesn't leave the room the whole time it happens, wondering if he should be doing more - if he should've done more. 

He should have, he knows. 

"It was your fault," Jaskier's father says during the funeral, in Geralt's face and spitting with rage. "You took him off and let him die. What's the point of you, all your strength, if you let my boy die? Your legend is too kind to you, Witcher, your skull should be crushed under a boot."

People hold him back when he lunges, but Geralt doesn't flinch, doesn't move. He knows. Oh, he knows.

"Jaskier meant a lot to me," he finally finds the words.

"His name was Rian!" The man howls. "He trusted you and you never learned his name! He trusted you and you let him waste away for weeks! He died in that bed, calling your name, believing you'd save him! Your legend, Witcher, your shit lie of a pointless life!"

Delphine finds him in the bar after the burial, Geralt drinking enough to kill Roach a hundred times over. 

“I’m so tired of watching him die,” Geralt says.

Delphine tilts her head at him. “He’s still not finished,” she says.

* * *

* * *

Geralt finds him here, too: in the basin of the Nazir River, where the land splits the water like an arrowhead. He’s bathing naked in the stream, and the space between his shoulder blades is tattooed with Geralt’s crest. He’s singing the first song Jaskier ever wrote for him, the jaunty tune filling up the valley. Geralt can’t help it: he bares his teeth at the sight, at its wild beauty, at the freedom he can see.

He climbs out of the river, grinning and completely shameless. "Hello," he says.

"Hi," Geralt returns, mouth dry. 

He doesn't bother to learn whatever this version of Jaskier thinks his name is. He invites Jaskier along, takes him to all the places they used to go, tries to fill up the time with old memories, new memories, anything to trigger a response in Jaskier. Anything to save his soul.

They're on the road from Ban Glean toward Ban Ard, Roach and Moth (a stout little mare, brown and named for Jaskier's terrible sense of humor, claiming that Roach needed a bug friend to his likeness) de-tacked and tied to a low-hanging branch. They're sitting around their campfire, a few feet away, watching the smoke fly high up into the dusk. Geralt's looking at the flames, turning the sight of Jaskier's tattoo over and over in his head. He has to remember something. He has to, there's no other way for Jaskier to have gotten that tattoo - no reason for Jaskier to have even known what Geralt's crest looks like.

"Hmm," Jaskier mumbles, turning over into his side to look at Geralt beneath his eyelashes. "You're thinking really hard."

Geralt frowns at him. All together he's known Jaskier almost one hundred and fifty years. This version has been around for a couple of days, maybe. Geralt forgets time, the passage of days seem insignificant to him, but he's been alone for a long time, and readjusting is always a process. "I'm not."

He smiles. "You are. Tell me what you're thinking."

Geralt shifts, draws his left leg up to his chest, leans closer to Jaskier. "The ink on your back. That symbol, where have you seen it?"

"In my dreams," Jaskier yawns, his eyelashes fluttering. Geralt watches him. "I would have these really elaborate dreams, but when I woke up, all I would remember is the mark. I had so many dreams, so many times, that eventually I could just draw it without having any dreams, like it was seared into my brain."

"And the song?"

Jaskier gives him a funny look. "It's a famous song, Geralt. Everyone knows Dandelion of Cintra wrote it."

Oh, yes. Jaskier's one-thousand stage monikers. Geralt snorts. "Yes. Do you like it?"

Jaskier's eyes sharpen, and he braces his elbow against the dirt, drops his chin into the palm of his hand and gives Geralt a smile. 

"It's about you."

Suddenly, Geralt feels uneasy. Jaskier has always made him feel this, sharp little moments where Geralt is caught in Jaskier's gaze, like a rabbit in a noose. It occurs to Geralt that he never asked why Jaskier was on the road, bathing in a river, traveling on a little nameless horse, what could have happened to turn him loose like that. Jaskier was always for adventure, but never without Geralt.

Jaskier's face is soft, like Geralt's first, and his neck is slender and long, like the third, and his skin is a pitch darker, like the second. There are thousands of things Geralt could say right now _. I want to know why you keep coming back_ , and _Tell me about your dreams_ , and _I've always liked your voice, even when I was angry with you._

"So... you like... fruit?" is what comes out of his mouth.

Jaskier barks out a surprised laugh. "Yes, Geralt. I do."

The silence between them draws again, and Geralt leans away, looks into the fire. Delphine's voice haunts him, _something unfinished._

"I should confess," he says to the fire, and then he thinks _confess what? Oh, yes, bard, I've known you one hundred and more years. I've gotten you killed countless times. Oh, yes bard, I know you're here because something is keeping you attached to this mortal plane. Oh, yes, bard, by the way, reincarnation is real, and you're the evidence._ He looks up at Jaskier, and sees those eyes. Those Pankratz eyes. 

Should Geralt confess, he knows he'd be naked in front of this version of Jaskier, he'd be spread out, laid bare, his soul transcribed for Jaskier to read. Why else would anyone travel a continent, save a soul, search for the same person over and over again? He knows what it is, how plain the truth sets him out. Geralt withdraws.

"Confess what?" He asks, joyously oblivious. Geralt looks at him.

His mouth is dry. He looks back to the fire and thinks, _fuck_ and wishes Yennefer were here, to break the silence, to start a row. It was simpler with her, they belong to each other so Geralt knows there's no losing her. This is infinitely more fragile, and Jaskier isn't nearly as much of a petty bitch. 

There's something he likes to say to the lords and barons that call for him, begging for help. He likes to do it against the backdrop of a castle wall lined with torches, or a stormy night. He likes to look down at their sniveling, pathetic, huddled mass, sneer and say _Pick a god and pray._ Geralt thinks about this now, sitting in front of a fire next to the one person who cannot hold any of his secrets, about to have the most volatile conversation in all history.

Okay, so maybe he's exaggerating a little. He's allowed to, his life has been nothing but unpleasant drama since its start.

"Hey," Geralt looks up, and sees Jaskier standing over him. He'd heard the sound of it, of course, but he still finds himself mildly surprised. 

Jaskier leans down, and Geralt catches the corner of his eye, the downsweep of Jaskier's long eyelashes, and then he's being kissed. Geralt reacts immediately, tilting his head so Jaskier's neck isn't at a weird angle, reaching up to cradle his jaw, pulling him down into Geralt's lap. He goes awkwardly and pulls away in order to coordinate himself, tossing a leg over Geralt's lap. Embarrassingly enough, Geralt follows Jaskier's mouth when he parts, and earns a smile for it, like it’s _endearing._ It's not.

He kisses Jaskier for a long time, presses his hands against the small of Jaskier's back, tries to drag him closer, wants their atoms to meld into one. He should've done this sooner, Geralt thinks, maybe things would be different, then.

"Stop thinking," Jaskier whispers in between the presses of his soft mouth.

* * *

* * *

The old Pankratz estate is halfway to ruins now, covered in moss, and the stench of old lichen fill Geralt's nostrils as soon as they reach the steps leading into the mansion. Jaskier looks at it with a shade of awe in his face, and Geralt finds an urge deep in his throat to say something, but the words won't come so Geralt says nothing.

"Go explore if you want," Geralt says, sliding off Roach and onto the dirt. "There's something here I need to get."

Jaskier dismounts Moth and looks up at the sky. "Storm soon," he says, but Geralt can smell it. If it's bad enough, they'll bunk here for the night. If Geralt were alone, he would continue on, but Jaskier is more fragile, and Geralt can't forget that.

They go inside, and the hall Geralt remembers used to be alive constantly, full of brightly dressed women and music, is empty and silent. The roof is eroded in places and sends streams of grey light onto the dusty floor. A banner has fallen from the rafters on the roof and lies now in a dusty heap at the bottom of the grand spiral staircase. There are broken statues and old decorative pillars scattered about the giant place. Flora has started to take back the estate, vines creeping along the floor, lichen, moss, and weeds growing off the banister of the staircase. There's a natural dip in the floor up ahead, Geralt sees into the dark recess of the hall, where a small pond has formed, all sorts of water plants grow around it, and Geralt sees the reflection of gold scales flash in the darkness. 

"On second thought, stay near. This place seems rickety."

Jaskier's eyes are bright and his brow is furrowed. He spins slowly around the hall, looking at everything the Pankratz name used to be. Geralt starts up the staircase, Jaskier wandering slowly behind him, touching the dusty, plant-covered banister. They travel upstairs, Geralt treads lightly, thinking of all the ghosts that reside here, and now he's come to join them.

He takes a well-practiced right at the top of the stairs, avoiding the ballroom and thousand other halls and doors to explore. He goes four doors down on the right again, to a faded red door with flaking gold decals, and opens the door. 

It's untouched, if completely dusty. Geralt stands stuck to the spot, half expecting to see Jaskier - the first one, his first one - lounging on the bed, idly plucking his lute, humming a few bars of a song. _Hurt,_ he thinks. He's still not used to it, all these years later. Jaskier ducks under his arm and looks into the room. It's prissy, if mostly unspecial, and but when Geralt was here for a few days after Yennefer delivered the news, the sheets smelled like Jaskier, and his things weren’t yet packed away into the trunk at the foot of his bed.

”What’s this?”

Geralt can’t find the words to say, so he doesn’t, just pushes away front the doorframe and into the room. The floorboards creak and settle under his heavy footfalls but hold steady. The one window, directly above the bed that's placed in the left corner of the room is letting the grey light from the outside filter in. He kneels down in front of the trunk and opens it.

The papers that hold Jaskier's old poems, half scribbled ideas, and notes are stacked face up and shunted to the side. Some of his clothes from childhood are folded and placed next to the stack of papers. On top of the clothes are two blue feathered quills and a thin, thin silver bracelet. Geralt picks it up and cradles it. It was one of the few things that the Pankratzes salvaged from their son's body.

He looks up, and Jaskier is standing in at the back wall, gazing at a portrait of Jaskier. A mourning portrait, placed in the rooms of the deceased. Geralt presses a hand against his shoulder. 

"You knew him."

It isn't a question, so Geralt doesn't let it be, and leaves the silence. Jaskier's Pankratz eyes, staring down at Geralt woefully from his high framed portrait. He can almost imagine the tremble of that bottom lip, that _I'll see you around,_ and anger is slow to burn in Geralt but when it does it catches quick. _Why'd you have to be so goddamn stupid,_ Geralt wants to snarl. _Why'd you walk into my life and ruin it and not even have the decency to stick around?_ He also thinks of this: Jaskier in his lap, the warmth of his body, how good it felt to put his hands on that waist. The multitudes of lives he's spent with Jaskier because he _wants_ to, because he's right there on the edge and he has been his whole life. _Why'd you go?_ he thinks distantly. His fault, again - all things with Jaskier are.

 _Hurt._ It echoes in this big, empty house, without any ghosts to grace the halls.

"Come on," he says, eventually. "Storm's moving fast. We'll let the horses into the hall. We can sleep in one of the rooms."

Geralt untacks Roach completely, rests the saddle, the bag, and the bridle on the banister. He walks over to the little ramshackle pond and finds a few small fish, nothing dangerous, and lets Roach drink. Jaskier leaves the bridle on Moth, less sure of his pony's proclivity to wander. 

Back up the stairs to the right, the first door, there's a little room, an old servant's room, likely, with no moss, and no Jaskier portraits, and a place to build a fire. So Geralt does, and Jaskier's sitting up by the fire, paging through an old book while Geralt sits on the bed and sharpens his knife. It's warm here, and they're unlikely to get wet.

"Why do you call me that?" he asks.

 _Shnk, shnk, shnk,_ goes Geralt's knife against the leather. "Call you what?"

"Jaskier," he turns a page. "I thought it was an Elder thing, like a cute name or something. But now I want to know."

Geralt can hear every little sound: the crinkle of Jaskier's books, the imperceptible shift of his weight, the slowly increasing patter of rain on the broken roof, Roach and Moth out in the hall, brushing up against each other, pressing noses together, nibbling the vines at their feet. _Shnk,_ says Geralt's knife above it all.

It's like this, the fish flaps its tail and spins out a current in the still pond, which touches the growing reed at the edge. The reed waves, even though there is no wind, and a bunny pricks its ears up, waiting for the fox to jump out. The fox does not, and the bunny goes on its merry way. But this question lingers between them, and Geralt cannot think of a thing to say.

Finally, he stands. He takes the bracelet out of his pocket as he kneels in front of Jaskier. His pretty bluebird eyes, his starling eyes, are wide as Geralt takes the book from his hands and puts it gently on the floor beside them. He takes one of Jaskier's hand and presses that thin bracelet into his palm. Geralt looks into his eyes, waits for recognition, for anything, but it doesn't come. He looks at it, then back at Geralt.

"It was..." Geralt leans back on his heels. "He..." _words, come on Geralt,_ "you're..."

"Is this about the man in that portrait?"

Geralt exhales through his nose, a sound of relief. "Yes."

"He looks like me," Jaskier says, hand tightening around the silver bracelet. "Is that why? Is that why... all of this? The kissing and the- the-"

"No. It's not because you _look_ like him," Geralt says. _Misstep_. The look on Jaskier's face is hurt, and anger, and burning humiliation. He shoves the bracelet into Geralt's chest. The push is hard enough that it unbalances his precarious position as Jaskier moves past him, and Geralt topples to the left, desperately reaching for the bracelet. He knocks against the bedpost and his knife tumbles from the bed, slicing Geralt's palm open.

"Fuck!" he says at the sharp sensation as the bedroom door bangs open and Jaskier flees.

He climbs to his feet, clutching the bracelet to his chest, letting his other hand drip blood onto the floor. He goes after Jaskier and catches sight of him at the bottom of the staircase, flying as fast as he can. The hall has filled with a shallow sheen of rainwater, and the sound of the storm is deafening now, a full-on downpour, as Jaskier shoves open the big front doors with his shoulder and disappears into the rain.

Geralt goes after him, boots splashing an echo up into the air. The torrent of rain is so forceful that for a moment, all of Geralt's senses are clouded. He spots it, the flash of Jaskier's hair, towards the forest, and goes after it.

He catches up to Jaskier at the edge of a cliff, panting and soaked completely. Geralt puts his hands up, non-threatening. They're standing ten feet apart, that hunting distance, where if Jaskier were game, Geralt would throw his spear at him.

"Jas-" he starts.

Jaskier whirls on him. "Am I just here because you think I can replace him? Because I look enough like him that you can pretend?" He's screaming over the din of the storm. Distantly, the clouds rumble. "Is this just some fantasy for you?"

"No-" Geralt takes a step forward, wanting to reach out and catch him by the lapels, pull him in and hold him close. Jaskier takes a step back, closer to the cliff's edge. Geralt's heart picks up pace. "Please."

"This is a joke," Jaskier's laugh is a little deranged. "For a second, I thought you really hated me."

Geralt's confused at the sudden change of tack. "Why would I hate you?"

"You want me to go away," the voice that comes out of Jaskier is low and pained. Then he says, "I won't be Jaskier for you. I won't pretend."

Geralt takes another step forward, and then another. Jaskier backs up the same. "I'm not pretending. This isn't a game," he tries. "You're him."

He barks out a laugh. "You're so convinced you've found a dead man that you'll take him home? What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Geralt tries to get closer again, but Jaskier moves away, heels scant inches from plummeting off the side. Geralt stops, heartbeat rabbit quick.

Geralt can feel it - that code switch, that Jaskier remembers, that this is a new fight and an old fight all at once. _We're so close,_ he thinks. _I'm so close to saving you._

"Don't come near," Jaskier warns. "I don't want you close to me."

"Okay," Geralt says, hating it. "That's okay. I don't want you to go away."

The rain his falling in rivulets down Jaskier's face, his nose, his cheeks. It apexes at his chin, and drips down onto the grass. There are drops that cling to his eyelashes, that tremble with every move he makes. _He must be cold,_ Geralt thinks distantly. His clothes cling to him from the water, his hands tremble a little when he lifts them to drag his fingers through his soaked hair.

"You told me to," he says, weakly, like the words are painful.

This is how Geralt sees it happen, the tiny shift of weight as Jaskier pulls his hand out of his hair, switching his dominant foot from the right to the left, and the unsteady ground beneath him, made unsteadier by the storm raging. The dirt crumbles a little, and then a pebble slips off the cliff face and down into the canyon below. More rocks follow until finally, finally, that one support slips out and...

The cliff crumbles. Geralt can't tell which scream is ringing in his ears, his or Jaskier's, as he lunges forward to catch him. _Too slow_ , he misses, and Jaskier is gone.

Geralt stays there, on his knees, until the rain lets up and the sun comes out. It feels inappropriate, for the sun to shine so brightly when Geralt's world has gone dark once again. Mud and rainwater make his clothes heavy, draped across his body like a weight. He can still feel the bracelet in his fingers, even though his hands have long gone numb. Grief - there is no descriptor for it.

Eventually, he stands. Geralt goes looking again, knowing how it ends.

* * *

* * *

At last, again, in the night, Geralt finds him here: looking at the moon, strumming a little tune, and whistling a song. Their song.

He's on the balcony of Lyria's smallest castle, the banquet long-forgotten behind him. Geralt can heart the sounds of the privileged dining and laughing, but Geralt had seen him slip away from the crowd, and Geralt had followed him.

Geralt comes out of the shadows. “Jaskier,” he says. 

Jaskier turns around, lute dangling from his fingertips. These are the facts of the world: 1) Yennefer of Vengerberg is his, just like he is hers, 2) there is a Child Surprise for him in Cintra, 3) waves rise and fall with the moon, and 4) in every life that Jaskier lets Geralt have him, there is music, and his smile, and Geralt keeps coming back.

“Actually it’s Corrin. You’re the Witcher of Rivia,” he says. He’s older, got lines on his face and silver is hidden in his brown waves. He looks like Geralt’s first Jaskier - that strikes him somewhere deep in his chest, like an arrow - his face is open and relaxed. “Have we met before?”

Geralt breathes out. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> beleth is like a demon (?) king or something i don’t know he’s from hell. i was gonna title this “assorted scenes from byleth” because byleth sounded like a dope fictional place name but then i was like (squints) .... i definitely stole that from something.... so i googled it and byleth is like a fucking video game character from a game one of my friends (maybe?) likes and i was like “bro absolutely not” so i just looked up similar things to byleth and bam title


End file.
